Page 55 of The Secrets of Jane: Reborn

I never felt the need to ask more.

“Why do I feel like I was never really taught about Skull’s Row?” I ask. “I know I didn’t ask about it, but nobody ever told me, either.”

A deep sigh escapes his lips. "Your mother fell in love withme, not me being a Zenith,” he admits.

I bittersweetly smile at the idea of my mother as a young woman, in love with a violent man. “Why did you become one?”

“I had a lot of anger in my youth and enjoyed killing,” he freely admits. “Then I liked the riches.Then, I liked the security of the power it offered.” He pauses as a group of kids chases a rat, one of them throwing a rock at it as the other screams. “By the time Ifearedwhat having that kind of power means, I was entirely entrenched in this world. Nora and I talked about leaving many times, you know.” He looks at me, my heart catching at hearing her shortened name. “Going across the Black Sea. Having Tempest take us—she was the only one your mother trusted to travel with.” His expression darkens, and even if he has the face of another man, I can tell it’shim. “And then everything happened that tore us apart.”

My gods, does it feel better than I could ever have imagined to hold such clarity? I really did have a normal family, at least normal tome; just a mother and father who dreamed of more, like so many in Coalfell, although many of them spoke of Belstead as their reprieve, or north into the vast woods.

Very few ever wanted to evenvisitSkull’s Row.

Once we’re bathed in a beaming ray of sunshine from the giant grate above us, I have to squint when looking up at the pattern, the natural light searing what feels like my entire eyeball. When I quickly lower my head to protect my vision, little spots from the light clouding everything I see.

I feel like a mole accidentally surfacing from its tunnels.

When the spots finally fade is when we come to a halt at a very long, stoney bridge. A man sits on a barrel and waves for people to stop, a table next to him with a pitcher of some kind, and a mug he drinks from. I peer around my father, repositioning my hood to keep my face hidden as much as possible while still being able to see.

That bridge looks utterly terrifying.

The entire thing is made of stone, tall pillars with crisscrossing rope as the side barriers, which has some gaping holes in places where someone could tumble right off and down into the black abyss below. Craning my neck upward, I guess it’s better than what connects the different tiers—long, low-dipping wooden bridges.

I’d rather walk on solid material.

“Why are we waiting?” I ask, the three of us standing among a small collection of people.

“Crowd control. That bridge can only carry so much, and there’s a caravan coming our way.”

Sure enough, a donkey carrying a small wagon leads a seven-carriage convoy, all moving very slowly to cross. “How did we get stuck if we had a magical know-it-all tell us when it’s the perfect time to move? Or did we just walk too slow?”

“I imagine the timing of this is larger than we can understand.” He crosses a hand over his wrist, leaning in to quietly add, “Although yes, this is quite annoying.”

I didn’t realize how much walking made it feel like we were progressing, even to somewhere unknown. Now, we’re plantedrightnext to a tavern where many sit outside—probably basking in the scarce sunlight—drinking, no,draining, their horns. I can’t help but watch in horrific anticipation as one man sprawls his hand out on the wooden table, and another uses a blade to stab in-between each finger. It’s a game I saw played as a child, and one that produced carnage that my mother had me heal countless times so I could learn.

The sound of a blade hitting a table seems to grow louder in my head as I know the man will miss the longer they play, as they always do—the man’s hand is punctured.

Many hoot and holler.

The one with the blade in his hand cries out in pain, frantically nodding for someone to pull it out. When he does, blood spills everywhere.

Without even thinking, I almost step forward, about to roll my eyes and tell him he’s an idiot as I close the wound with my magic.

Dad leans over. “Don’t even think about it. Healers don’t frequent down here without everyone noticing. We don’t need the eyes on us.”

“I didn’t—sorry,” I mumble.

Checking on the bridge to refocus, they’re all finally on the stone pathway, but still moving annoyingly slowly, probably trying to avoid getting too close to the rope that’s the ‘border.’

Glancing back at the man with the bleeding hand, my gaze flits to another who seems keen on staring at us. I don’t maintain eye contact, as that seems to be a recurring theme around here. Until I move only my eyes to look back at him, and he’s staring right at me.

My heart triples in its pulse.

There’s something to him that appears more astute than the rest, like Soren—he looks well muscled, and there are too many straps on his body for weapons to be just a normal spectator of this place. My body stiffens when he rises from his corner, and I swear he’s making his way to us. “Dad,” I breathe through my mouth. I’m already considering the ways Dad will probably attack him—because I’m not stupid enough to take someone head-on when a skilled killer is right next to me, including Donna. I’ll be prepared to come in from behind to stab the stranger, like Bones told me to do, then assess any wounds any of us might have.

“I’m aware,” he states, his voice steady.

“We just ride it out, then?” I ask, looking back at the bridge, the little donkey finally almost crossing over.